Martha & Annie Vance
May their smiles brighten up
A better world- than this
She didn't understand at first. Then it hit her. His wife must have died in childbirth.
Tess felt her face flush, deeply embarrassed now at her thoughtlessness in tracking this man down to his wife and daughter's graveside. She looked up at Vance and saw that he was looking at her, the sadness etching deep lines into his face. Her heart sank. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, "I didn't know."
"We had already chosen names, you see. Matthew if it had been a boy, and Annie, of course. We chose them the night we were married."
"What . . . how did they . . ." She couldn't finish her question.
"It happened just over halfway into her pregnancy. She'd been under close observation from the start. She was—well, we both were—rather old to be having our first child. And her family had a history of high blood pressure. Anyway, she developed something called preeclampsia. They don't know why it happens. I was told it was pretty common, but it can be devastating. Which it was in Martha's case." He stopped and took a deep breath, looking away. It was clearly painful for him to talk about it, and Tess wanted him to stop, she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her and avoid having him relive it through her selfish presence. But it was too late.
"The doctors said there was nothing they could do," he continued mournfully. "They told us Martha would have to have an abortion. Annie was too young to have any hope of surviving in an incubator, and Martha's chances of surviving the pregnancy herself were getting slimmer with each passing day."
"The abortion didn't ..."
His gaze turned inward. "Normally, it wouldn't even have been an option for us. But this was different. Martha's life was at risk. So we did what we'd always done." His expression hardened perceptibly. "We asked our parish priest, Father McKay, what we should do."
Tess cringed as she guessed what had happened.
Vance's face tightened up. "His position, the Church's position, was very clear. He said it would be murder. Not just any murder, you understand, but the most heinous of all murders. An unspeakable crime. Oh, he was very eloquent about it. He said we'd be violating the written word of God. 'Thou shalt not kill.' He said this was a human life we were talking about. We'd be killing a human being at the very beginning of its life, the most innocent murder victim possible. A victim who doesn't understand, a victim who can't argue, who can't plead for its life. He asked us if we would do it if we could hear its cries, if we could see its tears. And if that wasn't enough, his closing argument clinched it. 'If you had a one-year-old baby, would you kill it, would you sacrifice it to save your own life? No. Of course you wouldn't. What if it was one month old? What if it was just one day old? When does the clock really start ticking for a life?' " He paused, shaking his head at the memory. "We heeded his advice. No abortion. We put our faith in God."
Vance looked at the grave, a cocktail of grief and anger visibly swirling in his veins. "Martha held on until she went into convulsions. She died of a brain hemorrhage. And Annie, well . . . her little lungs never even got a chance to breathe our filthy air."
"I'm so, so sorry." Tess could barely speak. But it didn't really matter. Vance seemed to be in a world of his own. As she looked into his eyes, she could see that any sadness had now been overwhelmed by a fury that was rising from deep within.
"We were fools to put our lives in the hands of those ignorant, arrogant charlatans. It won't happen again. Not to anyone. I'll make sure of that." He gazed at the emptiness around them. "The world has changed a lot in a thousand years. Life's not about the will of God or about the malice of the devil. It's about scientific fact. And it's time people understand that."
And in that instant, Tess knew.
Her blood froze as it hit her with absolute certainty.
He was the man in the museum. William Vance was the fourth horseman.
Images raced through her mind of the panic at the museum, the knights charging, the gunfire, the mayhem, and the screams.
"Veritas vos liberabit." The words just stumbled out of her mouth.
He looked at her, his gray eyes boring into her with rage and realization.
"Exactly."
She had to get away, but her legs had turned to lead. She was utterly rigid and, in that moment, she thought of Reilly.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here," was all she could say. She thought of the museum again, about the fact that people had died because of what this man had done. She looked around, hoping to see other mourners, or any of the tourists or bird-watchers who frequented the cemetery, but it was way too early for that. They were alone.
"I'm glad you did. I do appreciate the company, and you, of all people, should appreciate what I'm trying to do."
"Please, I ... I was only trying to . . ." She managed to will her legs back to life and hesitantly took a few steps backward, darting nervous glances around, desperately trying to figure out an escape route. And at that moment, her cell phone rang.
Her eyes turned to saucers as she looked at Vance and, still stumbling backward, with Vance advancing slowly toward her, she held out one hand as her other hand dived into the bag for the phone, which was still ringing.
"Please," she pleaded.
"Don't," he said. And that's when she realized he was holding some kind of gun in his hand. It looked like a toy gun, with yellow stripes on its short, squared-off barrel. And before she could move or cry out, her fingers grasping at the cell phone in her bag, she watched him pull the trigger, and two probes came flying out through the air. They struck her chest, and she felt burning waves of unbearable pain.
Instantly, her legs buckled; then she was paralyzed, helpless.
Falling to the ground.
Spinning into unconsciousness.
* * *
From behind a nearby tree, a tall man whose dark clothing reeked of stale cigarettes felt a surge of adrenaline as he saw Tess get hit and fall to the ground. Spitting out a wad of Nicorette gum, he pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button, his other hand diving for the Heckler & Koch USP compact in the holster behind his back.
De Angelis was quick to answer. "What's going on?"
"I'm still at the cemetery. The girl—" Joe Plunkett paused, watching her as she lay there on the wet grass. "She met up with some guy, and he's just zapped her with a Taser."
"What?"
"I'm telling you, she's down for the count. What do you want me to do? You want me to take him out?" His mind was already laying out a plan of action. The Taser wouldn't be a threat. He wasn't sure about whether or not the silver-haired man standing over the girl had any other weapon on him, but it wouldn't matter either way; he'd be able to overwhelm him before the man had a chance to react, especially since the older man seemed to be out here on his own.
Plunkett waited for the order. His heart was already priming itself for the rush, and he could practically hear De Angelis's mind whirring away. Then the monsignor spoke with a calm, subdued voice.
"No. Do nothing. She doesn't matter anymore. He's now your priority. Stay with him and make sure you don't lose him. I'm on my way."
Chapter 33
A gale of dread blew through Reilly as he listened, his ear glued to his phone. "Tess? Tess!"
His calls remained unanswered, and then the line abruptly cut off.
He immediately hit the redial button, but after four rings, her recorded voice came up and asked him to leave a message. Another re-dial produced the same result.
Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.
He'd seen that Tess had called, but she hadn't left a message and had already left the office by the time he'd tried calling her back. He wasn't sure about how far he wanted to push her Templar angle anyway. He had felt awkward, almost embarrassed to have brought it up at the meeting with the rest of the team and the monsignor. Still, he had called her office bright and early and spoken to Lizzie Harding, her secretary, who
had told him Tess hadn't come in that morning. "She called to say she might be coming in late," was how she'd put it.
"How late?"
"She didn't say."
When he had asked for her cell-phone number, he was told they didn't give out personal information, but he decided it was about time he had the number, and the Institute's position was quickly reversed once he explained that he was with the FBI.
After three rings, her cell phone had clicked through but she hadn't said anything. He had heard only a shuffling noise, like when someone accidentally triggers a speed-dialed call from a cell phone in their handbag or pocket; but then he had heard her say "Please," in a tone that was disturbing. She had sounded scared. Like someone pleading. And then there was a succession of noises he was racing to make sense of: a sharp crack, then a couple of small thumps, what sounded like a brief, muffled cry of pain, and a much louder thump. He had shouted "Tess" into the phone again, but didn't get an answer, and then the line went dead.
Staring at his phone now, his heart was pounding. He really didn't like the way that "Please" had sounded.
Something was definitely, horribly wrong.
His mind racing, he dialed the Institute again and got through to Lizzie.
"It's Agent Reilly again. I need to know where Tess—" He quickly corrected himself, "—where Miss Chaykin is. It's urgent."
"I don't know where she is. She didn't say where she was going. All she said was that she'd be coming in late."
"I need you to have a look at her diary, check her e-mail. Does she keep an electronic calendar, maybe a program that's in sync with her PDA? There's got to be something there."
"Just give me a minute," she said, sounding edgy.
Reilly could see his partner now looking at him with concern.
"What's going on?" Aparo asked.
Reilly cupped the mouthpiece with one hand and scribbled down Tess's cell-phone number for Aparo with the other. "It's Tess. Something's happened. Get a fix on her cell."
** ** **
Across the East River, a gray Volvo was slowly making its way up the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Three cars behind the Volvo and keeping a discreet distance was a gunmetal gray Ford sedan, driven by a man who had the nasty habit of flicking cigarette butts out the car window while they were still lit.
To his left and across the river, the spires of the Lower East Side beckoned.
As he had guessed, the Volvo was soon on the bridge and heading into Manhattan.
Chapter 34
E ven before she opened her eyes, Tess was aware of the smell of incense. When she did open them, she saw what appeared to be hundreds of candles, their yellow flames throwing a soft, glowing light around the room she was in.
She was lying on a carpet of some kind, an old kilim. It felt rough and worn to her fingers.
Suddenly, her encounter with Bill Vance flooded back and she felt a chill of fear. But he wasn't there. She was alone.
Sitting up, she felt dizzy, but forced herself to rise unsteadily to her feet. She felt a sharp pain in her chest and another in her left side. She glanced down, feeling around, trying to remember what had happened.
He shot me. I can't believe he actually shot me.
But I'm not dead . . . ?
She examined her clothes, actually looking for telltale entry points, wondering why she was still breathing. Then she noticed the two spots where she'd been hit, the two places where her clothes were punctured, the edges of the holes slightly frayed and burned. And then it slowly came back to her, the image of Vance and die gun he'd been holding. She realized he hadn't meant to kill her, only to incapacitate her, and that the gun he'd shot her with must have been some kind of stun gun.
Not that that was a particularly comforting thought either.
Looking around through eyes that were still hazy, she guessed that she was in a cellar. Bare walls, paved floor, low-vaulted ceiling carried on elaborate pillars. No windows. No doors. In one corner was a wooden staircase leading upward into a darkness that wasn't reached by the light from the candles, most of which stood on shapeless masses of melted wax.
She slowly realized that the place was more than a cellar. Someone lived here. Against one wall was a cot, with an old wooden box for a bedside table. It was crammed with books and papers. At the opposite end of the space stood a long table. Before it, tilted slightly as though it had seen many years of service, stood a large swivel office chair. The table was piled with more books and papers at each end and there, centrally placed and surrounded by yet more candles, sat the encoder from the Met.
Even in the darkness of the candlelit chamber, it shone with an otherworldly presence. It seemed to be in better condition than she remembered it.
Tess spotted her bag on the table, her wallet lying open beside it, and she suddenly remembered her cell phone. Vaguely, she recalled hearing its ringtone before blacking out. She remembered feeling her way around the phone while it was still ringing and was sure she'd managed to hit a button, establishing the connection. She took a step to grab her bag but before she could get to it, a sudden noise spun her around. She realized that it came from the top of the stairs: a door opening, then closing with a metallic clunk. Then footsteps were coming down the steps and a pair of legs appeared, a man's. He was wearing a long overcoat.
Hastily, she stepped back as he came into view. Vance was looking her way and smiled warmly and, for an instant, she wondered if she were imagining what he had done to knock her out.
He moved toward her, carrying a large, plastic bottle of water.
"I'm really sorry, Tess," he said apologetically. "But I didn't have much choice."
Taking a glass from among the books on the table, he poured some water and handed it to her. Then he searched his pockets until he found a foil strip of tablets. "Here. These are strong painkillers.
Take one and drink as much water as you can. It'll help with the headache."
She glanced at the foil and recognized the brand. The strip looked untouched.
"It's just Voltarol. Go on, take it. You'll feel better."
She hesitated for a moment, then snapped a tablet out of the foil wrap and swallowed it with a gulp of water. He refilled her glass and she greedily drank that down, too. Still stunned by what had happened to her, she stared at Vance, her eyes striving to focus in the light of the candles. "Where are we? What is this place?"
His face took on a saddened, almost confused look. "I guess you could say it's home."
"Home? You don't actually live here, do you?"
He didn't answer.
Tess was having trouble making sense of what was going on. "What do you want from me?"
Vance was scrutinizing her. "You came looking for me."
"I came looking for you to help me figure something out," she snapped angrily. "I didn't expect you to shoot me and kidnap me like this."
"Calm down, Tess. No one's been kidnapped."
"Oh? So I suppose I'm free to leave."
Vance looked away, thinking. Then he turned to face her. "You may not want to leave. Once you've heard my side of the story."
"Believe me, I'd just as soon get the hell out of here."
"Well . . . maybe you're right." He seemed lost, even ashamed. "Maybe it is a little more complicated than that."
Tess felt the anger in her giving way to caution. What are you doing? Don't antagonize him. Can't you see he's lost it? He's unstable. He's into beheading people. Just stay ealm. She didn't know where to look or what to say. Glancing again toward the encoder, Tess spotted an opening in the wall against which the table stood. It was small, square, and shuttered. She felt a surge of hope, which just as quickly faded as she realized he wouldn't have left an escape route uncovered. He might be unhinged, but he isn't stupid.
Her eyes were drawn to the encoder again. That's what it was all about. She felt she needed to know more. She willed herself to calm down, then asked, "It's Temp
lar, isn't it?"
"Yes . . . And to think I'd been to the Vatican library several times, and all the time it must have been sitting there in some vault, gathering dust. I don't think they even realized what they had."
"And after all these years, it still works?"
"It needed some cleaning up and some oiling, but yes, it still works. Perfectly. The Templars were meticulous craftsmen."
Tess studied the device. She noticed that on the table beside it were numerous sheets of paper. Old documents, like sheets from a manuscript. She looked at Vance, who was watching her. It seemed to her like he was almost enjoying her confusion.
"Why are you doing this?" she finally asked. "Why did you need it so badly?"
"It all started in France, quite a few years ago." He cast a wistful glance at the old documents sitting by the encoder, his mind drifting. "In fact, it was shortly after Martha and Annie died," he said somberly. "I'd left the university, I was . . . confused, and angry. I had to get away from it all. I ended up in the south of France, in the Languedoc. I'd been there before, on walking trips with Martha. It's beautiful down there. You can easily imagine what it must have been like back then.
They have a very rich history, though a lot of it is rather bloody . . . Anyway, while I was there, I came across a story that just stayed with me. A story that had taken place several hundred years ago.
It was about a young priest who was called in to a dying old man's deathbed to give him the last rites and hear his confession. The old man was believed to have been one of the last surviving Templars. The priest went in, even though the man wasn't part of his congregation and hadn't asked, in fact had even refused, at first, to see him. Finally, he relented, and, legend has it that when the priest came out, he was white with shock. Not just his face, but even his hair had turned white. They say he never smiled again after that day. And years later, just before he eventually died, he let the truth slip. It turned out that the Templar had told him his story and had shown him some papers.
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